Sword of the Gods

by Bruce R Cordell

  Demascus paused. He shook his head and said, “But I’ve been in Airspur. I remember genasi. I was in your shop.”

  “Yeah, four years ago. And the scarf says you had some kind of clever plan. No doubt that’s why you left it with me. You probably died … that day.”

  Demascus studied his hands. Chant noticed how smooth and scar-free they were; odd for a warrior. Unless that warrior had only worn his flesh for a few days …

  Chant shivered.

  Demascus said, “Burning dominions … chances are, you’re right. Gods, I’m having difficultly keeping all of this in my head at one time.”

  Riltana said, “Not to pile on, but why did you ask the Veil if you were a divinely sanctioned killer anyway?”

  “I asked it that because … I remember talking to an avatar of Oghma.”

  This was becoming too much. “The Lord of Knowledge?” said Chant. “You remember talking to him? He’s a god. That can’t be right.”

  “I said an avatar, not the actual deity. And to the extent I can trust any of my memories, I’m sure it is right. He wanted me to … deal with somebody. And though the avatar didn’t specify, I got the impression he wanted me to do so with extreme prejudice. And it was pretty clear Oghma’s commission wasn’t the first of that sort I’d taken from, uh, highly placed divine intermediaries.” Demascus ran a hand through his hair. He looked resigned when his fingers failed to brush against anything but hair.

  “Well, backstab me and call me a rat’s aunt,” said the thief. “You’re claiming you’re some kind of assassin of the gods?”

  “I suppose I am. Or, I was. And I’m not sure that’s an identity I want to reclaim. Some of the things that I can recall are not—”

  “Have you considered the other possibility?”

  “What?”

  “That you’ve escaped from the Healing House after being knocked on the head too hard.”

  Demascus opened his mouth as if to offer a hot retort. Then his mouth quirked, and he began laughing.

  Chant joined in, and Riltana smiled. The pressure of all the revelations and guesses abated somewhat. The thief is more politic than I guessed, Chant thought.

  Finally Demascus answered her, “The evidence suggests something less prosaic, though I am beginning to wish otherwise.”

  Riltana nodded and said, “Yeah, it’s unlikely you’re merely a nutter with a wild hallucination to share. The Veil saved my life down in the labyrinth. It’s no mere conjurer’s prop. They don’t just give scarfs like that out on street corners.” Her eyes settled on the cloth and glittered.

  Given her history with it, Chant was pretty sure the glint was mere reflexive desire, not contemplative avarice. She’d have to be pretty bumbling to steal it again, now that they knew her interest in it. And Riltana did not strike Chant as the least bit stupid.

  Demascus said, “Regardless of what I was before, it’s not who I am now.”

  “But maybe you can be so again,” said Chant. “If you find your sword. It’s either that, or … you could turn your back on it all, and start fresh. Throw away the Veil, leave Airspur, and never look back.”

  “But then I’ll never really know who I was,” protested Demascus.

  Riltana leaned forward. “Or figure out what the Veil meant by you falling into sin. What’d you get up to?”

  Demascus rubbed his brow as if trying to massage away an incipient headache. He said, “In my very first memory, I was strangling a priest with the Veil. A priest whose name was Tarsis, I think. A priest of Oghma.”

  “Oh,” said Riltana.

  Chant asked, “Was this Tarsis the one the avatar wanted you to dispatch?”

  “No. Tarsis was the one who introduced me to the avatar. The name the avatar gave me to deal with was Undryl Yannathar. Who also means nothing to me.”

  Chant shrugged and Riltana said, “Never heard it before either.”

  Quiet again descended on the shop. Chant didn’t know what else to say, so he just studied … the deva.

  Demascus stood up suddenly. “I should go.”

  “Go where?” said Chant.

  “Away from here, until I can figure out what’s going on. I feel as if my head’s in danger of exploding. And I shouldn’t drag either of you into my problems.”

  “I dragged myself into it by stealing your scarf, you idiot,” said Riltana. “And then Kalkan tried to kill me. No one puts a hit on me and gets away with it. In my line of work, you can’t let people walk over you. And I bet you he’s your nemesis too! Don’t walk away from help I’m happy to give you free of charge.”

  “And I,” said Chant, “have far too much to gain, in knowledge alone, to not help you figure out what it’s all about.” On the other hand, he didn’t say, I hope that your mysterious nemesis doesn’t decide to even the odds by taking out your newest associates first. I’ve got enough people scheming for my skin.

  Riltana snorted and said, “Not to mention the prestige you’d gain for palling around with a divine assassin.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Chant frowned at the woman.

  “I know the circles you run in, Morven. People you interact with make my petty thievery look like child’s play.”

  His face felt warm. But he didn’t gainsay Riltana. Instead, he stared at Demascus and said, “So it looks like you’ve got some allies in this. If you really want to untangle your past, you’ll manage it quicker and easier with our aid.”

  Demascus blew out a long breath. He finally said, “You’re right. Thank you.”

  “Good, now sit down,” said Riltana. “Because I want to know what that four-armed creature was that attacked us after you found me in the caves.”

  Demascus shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Chant didn’t want to tell Demascus or Riltana about his own troubles; it was none of their business! But he’d been bitten enough to know holding secrets too tightly from friends was asking for it. He said, “Listen. I’ve made a few enemies myself. One so fierce you could call him my nemesis.”

  “Really,” said Riltana, but in a way that suggested she wasn’t the least surprised.

  “But they’re mostly street thugs, not monsters like what came after us. Not that I think that’s relevant to the demon that ambushed us. I think we have to assume it was something meant to find and dispatch Demascus.”

  Demascus said, “The thing in the Sepulcher was like a more powerful version of the thing that attacked me when I woke up at the shrine. It even croaked something out about the Elder Elemental Eye when it attacked us, and we know the Cabal was involved with that.”

  She nodded, then mused, “It’s still hard to believe the Cabal Motherhouse is destroyed.”

  “Saw it with my own two eyes,” said Chant. “Anyhow, if the Cabal was somehow involved with the Cult of the Elder Elemental Eye, then perhaps it’s no wonder. The Elder Elemental Eye is nothing to trifle with, no matter how bat-crap crazy you are.”

  “And now,” said Riltana, “your Veil has apparently exhausted its ability to communicate. We’re out of leads. Until the next demon shows up and tries to kill us again.”

  Chant’s brows suddenly furrowed in thought. Right before they’d arrived at the Cabal headquarters …

  “What?” said Demascus.

  “Remember we saw that black chariot in front of the Motherhouse? It was pulling away when we got there?”

  Demascus nodded.

  “Someone at court knows about the Cabal’s involvement. At the very least, they know about the demonic incursions, according to Lieutenant Leheren.”

  “A black chariot?” said Riltana.

  “Yes. Chased with silver like ice.”

  Riltana breathed in. “Only the queen uses that coach,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” replied Chant, looking at her quizzically. “I thought it might be an envoy of the Crown.”

  “Well … I used to know someone who is close to the queen. Arathane reserves that conveyance for herself.”


  Chant goggled. He said, “You know the queen? Extraordinary! Can you set up some sort of meeting?” He smiled, imagining himself talking with Queen Arathane.

  “I didn’t say I know the queen—I know an associate of the queen!”

  “Who?”

  The woman looked uncertain, which Chant decided Riltana was not used to.

  “Now’s not the time to be shy,” he wheedled. “If we’re going to get to the bottom of this before someone sends another monster after Demascus, we need to utilize all our resources, call in all our favors.”

  Riltana said, “I know the queen’s niece.”

  “Ho ho!” he crowed. “Right to the top! If it gets out I am a sometimes-confidant of the queen—”

  “But … she hates me. I don’t even know if she would agree to see me, let alone try to set up a meeting.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Her name is Carmenere.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  AIRSPUR

  THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  THE SETTING SUN DRAGGED RILTANA TOWARD A MEETING SHE both dreaded and gleefully anticipated. Her stomach couldn’t quite decipher her emotional state, so settled on feeling queasy.

  Her rescuers were still in the pawnshop, but she expected they’d emerge soon. She’d insisted they wait until dark before visiting Carmenere. The woman wouldn’t appreciate seeing Riltana again, and would be even less happy to find her estranged friend in the company of two rough-looking men on her doorstep in the full light of day, where any passerby could see.

  So they’d relaxed, though the pudgy shop owner had been overexcited at the possibility of meeting the queen. When Riltana proved too taciturn to respond to his ever wilder guesses about how likely they were to actually set foot in the audience chamber, he retired to his room above the shop for a nap. Demascus had busied himself looking through some old books Chant had shown him.

  Riltana had decided against returning to her apartment to wait out the waning afternoon. Instead she found a place to sit and put up her boots in the square outside the shop. Chant’s pawnshop was beyond the edge of the Darkled Depths, far enough from the overhanging motes that a portion of the plaza enjoyed late afternoon sunlight.

  She’d spent part of that time wondering about Demascus. Riltana was wary of surface judgments. Too much of her own life depended on manipulating how people saw her and reacted to her. So for her to believe Demascus had lived many lives, and that he was the reincarnation of someone who once rubbed shoulders with gods … Well, it was going to require more evidence than the man’s claimed memories and hints spelled out on a scarf, no matter how impressive a name it had.

  Of course, Kalkan’s murder attempt made the whole thing too personal to ignore. If Kalkan was coming for Demascus again, Riltana would be hiding nearby, so she could slip a length of sharpened steel into his kidneys.

  So she’d watched the comings and goings through the square. Genasi were a colorful people, but Riltana was used to the flashy dress of her fellow citizens, often chosen to further highlight the particular color and pattern of szuldar energy lines that marked most genasi’s faces.

  It was the ones that took no particular effort to make themselves stand out that Riltana’s attention was automatically drawn to. She’d seen one such fellow a few times, apparently a windsoul by the glimpses she saw of his shimmering skin, though he was mostly covered by threadbare wraps. He spent several bells sitting near the square’s entrance. A wide-brimmed hat sat on the street before him, accepting coin from benevolent strangers. From what Riltana could see, he’d made fairly decent custom.

  Finally the sun dipped beneath the Akanawater Falls where the facing cliffs of Airspur came together. The light shone with brilliant gold for a couple instants, then gave way to the spreading twilight.

  She stood. Lounging in the square wasn’t as comfortable without the sun’s warm caress. Her neck was stiff from reclining, so she rolled her head around in slow circles.

  Demascus emerged from the shop. He scanned the square with a worried frown until he saw her. She nodded greeting.

  “Did you get any rest?” he said.

  She nodded again.

  “Good. So did we. Let’s go see your friend.”

  “All right. Hold on.” Riltana pushed past Demasus into the shop.

  The pawnbroker was hunched over his counter, chopping jerky with a cleaver. Fable was winding around his legs meowing as if she hadn’t eaten in a tenday.

  Chant glanced up as Riltana entered. He said as if embarrassed, “She won’t eat if the pieces aren’t small enough.”

  “Of course. Say, shopkeep?”

  “Yes?”

  “What kind of weapons do you have on hand? Besides that cleaver, I mean. I lost my short sword beneath the Sepulcher. And a handful of daggers too.”

  Chant looked at Demascus, who had followed Riltana back into the shop. “Can you finish this?”

  “Uh, sure.” The tattooed man picked up where the pawnbroker left off, though with less speed and precision. Fable’s meows grew more pitiful and strident as she was forced to endure waiting even longer. Oh, the abuse! thought Riltana, and smiled.

  The human directed her to a case containing a battle axe, a crossbow, and a set of matching long swords with lacquered handles. She opened her mouth to patiently explain the difference between a dagger and a battle axe, but Chant pulled open one of the wide, narrow drawers beneath the display to reveal five short swords.

  She closed her mouth and examined the hardware. A couple pieces were clearly decorative, but three were real weapons. A sword has to be designed for its intended use. The three she’d identified were all no-nonsense lengths of steel, but one was pattern-welded, and it tapered in thickness from the base of the blade to the point in a way that told Riltana, at a mere glance, that it was a fine piece of workmanship. Its hilt was tightly wrapped with leather that may have once been dyed white, though hard use had caused the color to darken. A snowflake was etched into the blade near the guard.

  “Does that engraving have any significance?” she said.

  “The fellow who pawned it didn’t say so; he’d have pointed it out if the blade possessed some kind of enchantment. ’Course, it’s possible the blade was stolen. Maybe it does mean something.” He shrugged.

  She plucked it from the drawer and gave it a few experimental swings and thrusts. “I’ll take this one,” she said.

  “Good choice.”

  He closed the drawer, and opened another one a few down from the first. A random mess of daggers cluttered the compartment. None were decorative; all were equal opportunity lengths of death. She smiled, and selected twelve.

  “And how about restorative backup; got any more of those potions? I always like to carry at least one.”

  Chant nodded, and produced a vial filled with a thumb of blue liquid. She palmed it, and the elixir disappeared.

  “Light sources?” she asked.

  The man motioned to a rack of candles, lanterns, sun-rods, and torches. She grabbed a sunrod.

  “How much for everything?” she said as she secreted the daggers in the various concealed sheaths stitched into her armor.

  Chant named a figure, she made a counteroffer, and so it went until she finally sheathed the short sword in her over-the-shoulder scabbard. The pawnbroker grinned and accepted her last proposal.

  Fully equipped again, she thought. Let Kalkan find me now!

  Demascus finished chopping. He scraped the litter of jerky into a bowl and set it on the floor, though Fable nearly knocked it flying as he brought it down.

  They left.

  Twilight was normally Riltana’s favorite time of the day. The thousands of lights dotting the facing cliffs and twinkling on the floating motes of the magnificent cliff city were a wonder. But she looked inward, and relived the scene of her last interaction with Carmenere. It was a memory she tried not to brood upon constantly. Thinking about other things had proved to be a skill, and one that she�
��d improved at.

  Except with the night’s trip destined to end at Carmenere’s door, that terrible night came crashing back down on her.

  She’d been in her loft, enjoying a delicate wine from a renowned cellar somewhere west of the Sea of Fallen Stars. Carmenere stormed in.

  When Carmenere was upset, she yelled, her face flushed, and her hands fluttered like birds. Riltana had seen it enough to know the woman’s harsh words were a temporary squall. Carmenere was high-strung, but she was always willing to be mollified by words of contrition and quiet companionship.

  That time Carmenere did not come through the door with her arms waving and her face red with emotion. She was pale and quiet, as if drained of all emotion. Her face was expressionless as a cliff face.

  Oh shit, thought Riltana.

  “How could you?” said Carmenere. Her voice was dull with fatigue.

  “How could I what?” said Riltana.

  But she knew what. Guilt rose like bad wine in the back of her throat. Carmenere knew. Riltana swallowed and tried to formulate her next words. It was important she get each one of them right—

  “How could you trade on our friendship like that?” said Carmenere. “I thought we were …” The woman trailed off. She didn’t scream, she didn’t yell. She just dropped her head in resignation. That tiny movement spoke volumes.

  Denials leaped to Riltana’s lips, but she couldn’t force them out. It wouldn’t do any good.

  Carmenere had obviously discovered that the painting of the first queen of Akanûl was missing from the foyer of the royal court. She’d apparently assumed that Riltana was the one who’d taken it.

  And she was right.

  Riltana’s eyes teared up. Carmenere would never forgive her. But she had to try to make it right.

  “I can explain!” said Riltana, her voice taut. “I was going to bring it back! I just borrowed it for a fortnight, so we could study the style and get it just right; my friend Threneth and I were going to surprise you …”

  Carmenere just stared at her, her expression boring into Riltana like a waterwheel-powered drill bit. The woman said, “You were never my friend. All we had was a charade, and one I was foolish enough to fall for. The very tenday I show you around the royal court, and you steal something. You’ve been using me all this time. It was your plan all along.”